


A Darker Timeline

by Anna_Hopkins



Series: October, 2020 [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood, Book 6: Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, Dark Mark (Harry Potter), Death Eaters, Gen, Horror, Mild Gore, Minor Character Death, Murder, Rituals
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-20
Updated: 2020-10-20
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:34:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26738197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anna_Hopkins/pseuds/Anna_Hopkins
Summary: (Previously known as 5:137)Harry should have stayed at Slughorn's Christmas party.
Series: October, 2020 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1946074
Comments: 17
Kudos: 84





	A Darker Timeline

**Author's Note:**

> Loosely inspired by _Prominence_ by Acnara; I think you'll see why.

> [...] Draco Malfoy being dragged by the ear toward them by Argus Filch.
> 
> "Professor Slughorn," wheezed Filch, his jowls aquiver and the maniacal light of mischief-detectoin in his bulging eyes, "I discovered this boy lurking in an upstairs corridor. He claims to have been invited to your party and to have been delayed in setting out. Did you issue him an invitation?"
> 
> Malfoy pulled himself free of Filch's grip, looking furious.
> 
> "All right, I wasn't invited!" he said angrily. "I was trying to gate-crash, happy?"
> 
> "No, I'm not!" said Filch, a statement at complete odds with the glee on his face. "You're in trouble, you are! Didn't the headmaster say that nighttime prowling's out, unless you've got permission, didn't he, eh?"
> 
> "That's all right, Argus, that's all right," said Slughorn, waving a hand. "It's Christmas, and it's not a crime to want to come to a party. Just this once, we'll forget any punishment; you may stay, Draco."
> 
> Filch's expression of outraged disappointment was perfectly predictable; but why, Harry wondered, watching him, did Malfoy look almost equally unhappy? And why was Snape looking at Malfoy as though both angry and.. was it possible? ...a little afraid?
> 
> But almost before Harry had registered what he had seen, Filch had turned and shuffled away, muttering under his breath; Malfoy had composed his face into a smile and was thanking Slughorn for his generosity, and Snape's face was smoothly inscrutable again.
> 
> "It's nothing, nothing," said Slughorn, waving away Malfoy's thanks. "I did know your grandfather, after all..."
> 
> "He always spoke very highly of you, sir," said Malfoy quickly. "Said you were the best potion-maker he'd ever known..."
> 
> Harry stared at Malfoy. It was not the sucking-up that intrigued him; he had watched Malfoy do that to Snape for a long time. It was the fact that Malfoy did, after all, look a little ill. This was the first time he had seen Malfoy close up for ages; he now saw that Malfoy had dark shadows under his eyes and a distinctly greyish tinge to his skin.
> 
> "I'd like a word with you, Draco," said Snape suddenly.
> 
> "Oh, now, Severus," said Slughorn, hiccuping again, "it's Christmas, don't be too hard-"
> 
> "I'm his Head of House, and I shall decide how hard, or otherwise, to be," said Snape curtly. "Follow me, Draco."
> 
> They left, Snape leading the way, Malfoy looking resentful. Harry stood there a moment, irresolute, then said, "I'll be back in a bit, Luna - er - bathroom."
> 
> "All right," she said cheerfully, and he thought he heard her, as he hurried off into the crowd, resume the subject of the Rotfang Conspiracy with Professor Trelawney, who seemed sincerely interested.
> 
> It was easy, once out of the party, to pull his Invisibility Cloak out of his pocket and throw it over himself, for the corridor was quite deserted. What was more difficult was finding Snape and Malfoy. Harry ran down the corridor, the noise of his feet masked by the music and loud talk still issuing from Slughorn's office behind him. Perhaps Snape had taken Malfoy to his office in the dungeons... or perhaps he was escorting him back to the Slytherin common room... Harry pressed his ear against door after door as he dashed down the corridor until, with a great jolt of excitement, he crouched down to the keyhole of the last classroom in the corridor and heard voices.
> 
> "...cannot afford mistakes, Draco, because if you are expelled-"

"I  _ won't," _ Malfoy snapped, but his voice sounded less angry and more resigned. "I won't be," he continued, more subdued. "I know my duty, Severus."

_ What _ duty? Was Malfoy as much as admitting he was responsible for Katie Bell? Harry just  _ knew _ he'd been planning something - he crept closer under the Cloak to listen-

"If you know your duty, then  _ attend to it," _ Snape hissed. "The hour is nigh. Be on your way."

A sigh. "And I won't see you there, will I?" Malfoy muttered, dejected. His voice was getting closer to the door; Harry heard footsteps, and leapt back before it opened to admit the blond Slytherin out into the corridor, stuffing a drawstring bag into his pocket and glancing around before casting a Disillusionment Charm upon himself. Thus camouflaged, Malfoy took off at a brisk walk in the direction of the staircase.

Not waiting for Snape to somehow discover his presence as  _ he _ left the room, Harry followed.

As a general rule, the air in the castle was coldest in the dungeons and warmest at the tops of Hogwarts' various towers, once winter hit. This ought to have been the case today, as any day; except, following Malfoy up to what he realized was the seventh-floor corridor, Harry shivered in the embrace of a sudden chill not unlike that of a Dementor's presence, as bone-deep and piercing as if he'd gone out in the snow.  _ At least these dress robes are warm, _ he thought miserably, rubbing his hands together to retain what little heat they'd gained in the walk through the castle.

He heard Malfoy sigh through his nose, up ahead, and glanced in that direction - and froze.

For along the walls, he spotted the telltale rippling and shifting of multiple figures under Disillusionment just like Malfoy's; and the blond was partially undoing his own charm, addressing those assembled in a murmur that carried in the dead silence of stone walls from where he stood - which was, Harry realized, in front of the entrance to the Room of Requirement.

"Keep your Disillusionments up," Malfoy began, tone sharp. "If you are here, you know why. When the door opens," he pointed at the bare wall, "you will cross the threshold, one by one." He withdrew the same drawstring bag Harry had seen earlier, and from it, pulled out a pale, white mask.

Harry's stomach twisted.  _ Oh. _

_ If you know your duty, then attend to it. The hour is nigh. _

This was - a Death Eater gathering.

Malfoy spun around suddenly. Harry flinched back, thinking he'd been caught, but no: the blond was merely beginning his pacing to summon the Room, and on the third turn, between one blink and the next, Harry saw an archway appear.

It was not a door; the stones framing the passage were cracked and weathered as though take from a ruin, and a heavy black fabric hung, rippling, reminding Harry eerily of the Veil.

Malfoy took up a spot beside the arch, holding out the mask in his hand, and the first stranger stepped forward to take it, disappearing beyond the archway into a vast darkness unlike anything Harry had ever seen the Room create. Then the next person, and the next; and Harry realized two things very quickly.

One, there were a lot more people attending this gathering of Voldemort's army than Dumbledore made it sound like.

And two, if he wanted to sneak into the meeting, he would have to do so now or not at all.

Harry had practice slipping through crowds, honed from previous experience; he Disillusioned himself under the Cloak, pulled up the hood attached to the capelet on his dress robes, and insinuated himself into a spot between two people toward the middle-end of the line. There were ten ahead of him, he counted, those nearest exuding a somewhat nervous energy as they reached to take and don the mask Malfoy handed them. Harry wondered if he'd be caught somehow, but no - when his faintly trembling hands reached for the white, stylized skull, it passed into his grasp without comment.

The bone-white material tingled under his fingertips, curiously warm to the touch. Before Harry could second-guess himself, he raised it to his face, took a deep breath, and put it on. It obscured his vision for just a moment, before whatever magic laid upon the item took effect, and then it was like it was not there at all, though he could feel its weight and warmth against his skin.

He blinked, repressing a shudder at the strange sensation, stepped forward, and crossed the threshold into darkness-

-and felt the distinct tug of an activating Portkey.

_ I thought Portkeys didn't work through Hogwarts' wards, _ Harry thought, managing not to stumble on the other end. Then he looked around, and thought,  _ where the hell am I? _

It looked like a cave, but were caves so large? Silhouettes of stalactites on the ceiling were only just visible in the darkness, outlined by the huge, green bonfire stood in the middle of the space; the logs of which seemed oddly shaped, Harry thought, squinting, until - with a twist in his gut - he saw they were not logs at all, but bones.

He breathed in sharply through his nose, tearing his eyes away, to look at the others nearby; though they were no longer Disillusioned, the shadows of the cave cast everyone as formless dark shapes, against which only the whites of the masks stood out.

And then, beyond the group in whose midst Harry stood, loomed shadowed figures at the edges of the cave, forming a wide circle around him and the Hogwarts group where they were all gathered before the bonfire's un-warmth. There had to be hundreds of people, skull masks in different colors and styles; when had Voldemort's followers grown so numerous? Why had Dumbledore never explained the scope of the Dark threat?

Two masked students near Harry spoke in hushed, feminine voices: "..wonder which one is our cousin," one was saying, peering around at the crowd of watchers.

"..d'you know who you're going to pick for the sacrifice?" a wizard was asking his friend somewhere behind Harry in a carrying whisper.

There were mutterings of plans, all around him, enemies and plots of betrayal, uncertain whispers of being 'good enough'; Harry realized with a chill that he had not snuck into just  _ any _ meeting of Voldemort's followers.

They were here for their initiations.

He gazed into the flames, until his eyes adjusted enough to see beyond them: and Harry saw now that beyond the bonfire, atop a jagged crop of shining black stone, was a white seat, an empty throne.

_ Perhaps, _ he thought, biting his lip,  _ this was a bad idea. _

Then the murmuring of the crowds - both the initiates and the waters - cut to silence. The bonfire hissed and crackled, flaring higher to the distant ceiling in a flash of bright green like the Killing Curse and receding to low embers in the next moment, so that the cave was cast in a deeper darkness, but for the baleful light of the moon that fell in a pane upon the throne.

The throne which was now occupied.

Voldemort was there, gazing down upon them: his inhuman features were only enhanced by the pure white robes he wore, when Harry had only ever seen him in black before. In a scene painted in shades of blue, his eyes remained bright red, faintly aglow. There was an unadorned black circlet upon his head whose purpose Harry could not begin to guess. In lieu of words, the Dark Lord emitted a low, echoing hiss, whipping his gaze across the scene below, and seemed almost to smile at what he saw. Approving.

"We are gathered here," he addressed them, "not only as friends, for we are many strangers; not only as wizards, for we wear many forms; not only as countrymen, for we are of the world. What loyalty, then, is our bond? By what name does this speaker address the many?"

A weighted pause; and then: "Just one. Death Eaters."

He rose in a graceful sweep of white fabric at the same time as the watchers all knelt, a drumbeat of limbs upon stone from all sides. Harry's face tilted up to watch and listen, unbidden by any magic, at the wizard who towered over them even more than before. "A unity of purpose," Voldemort breathed. "A loyalty of vows." Pale hands extended toward the initiates. "A gathering, this night, of  _ challenge." _

The circlet shifted. Harry realized, blinking, that it was no solid stone or metal as he had assumed from its sheen, but a snake - alive, and unwinding from the crown of Voldemort's head to coil instead about his shoulders. "As we met in the summer, now we meet in the winter, Death Eaters: this Yule-eve, lay your eyes upon the aspirants, the seekers, who petition to join our ranks."

The green fire separating the initiates from the throne moved to encircle Harry's group entirely, flaring bright enough to illuminate them who stood within it against the black stone of the floor. Harry felt the weight of the audience's gazes trail over him, and held himself very still, fearing the moment he was found out as a pretender - an impostor - an unbeliever.

But no such recognition came to pass. The flames flowed like water back onto the bones of the bonfire, and Voldemort continued to speak. "Aspirants," he named them, "this fire before you is your first trial. Each of you will stand upon the pyre and be tested; beyond the flames, the worthy will meet their escort, and go out to seek their sacrifice." The low flames flickered, anticipatory, and the students at the front of the group moved closer. "Begin."

A figure stepped onto the smoldering embers and flinched as they flared up around them to just over their head. Polite applause greeted them on the other side; a group of six Death Eaters descended from the gallery to Apparate away with their charge. Harry let the flow of the crowd direct him nearer, unwilling to seem too eager or too hesitant; he glanced up at the throne to see that Voldemort had settled into it, stroking the black serpent on his shoulder as he watched.

Not all aspirants passed. It appeared that whatever the green flames represented, if they did not reach high enough to pass a person's head, they were turned away, escorted off by white-robed figures with black skull masks through some hidden doorway Harry couldn't see. He wondered what the penalty was for failure, and if it would let him go back to Hogwarts unscathed.

Merlin, it could only have been an hour since he'd left Slughorn's Christmas party; why then did the memories of that past seem so distant, so transient, in comparison to here and now? He'd been a fool in hindsight; had not been thinking at all before sneaking into this ceremony, this place where he could not possibly belong. What had he meant to accomplish, beyond being somewhere he wasn't supposed to?

The last person ahead of him stepped into the flames, and passed. This close, the green magic licked at him through the dress robes: it did feel warm, this close, mild like Floo flame, and in a poetic sense, that was just what it was. Either way, he knew as he stepped onto the pile of bones, flattened but not broken by the passage of other feet upon them, he would emerge from green fire in a different place than he had entered: failure, or success. Departure, or sacrifice.

He looked up toward the throne again, not quite meeting Voldemort's observant gaze, and wondered how high the flames would rise - torn between hoping that he passed, and that he didn't.

Green. Applause. Harry blinked away the afterimage, surprised, and managed not to stumble as he entered the area beyond the pyre, at the feet of the throne, where six Death Eaters flowed down to join him.

He'd  _ passed? _

The tallest Death Eater in the group offered Harry his arm for Side-Along Apparition. "Think of the place you want to go while we Apparate," the wizard advised as Harry linked elbows.

Wordlessly, Harry nodded, staring up into the grey skull trimmed in gold. Inside, he was panicking, because from the aspirants' chatter beforehand and the rumors he'd heard, this 'sacrifice' Voldemort demanded was murder.

_ What do I do, what do I do- _

The other five stepped closer, encircling them for Apparition, and somewhere in the liminal space between  _ here _ and  _ there _ a destination came to him, pulled from the same part of Harry as the dreams he would never acknowledge while awake.

Seven figures touched down on the sidewalk of Privet Drive, amidst the inconsistent flickering of a broken streetlamp.  _ Should have known, _ Harry reflected,  _ that I'd come back here again, after all. _

His escort took a step back, allowing Harry to guide the group. "Muggle area," someone muttered, derisive.

The Death Eater with the gold-trimmed mask glanced at them, then back at Harry. "You've got the lead, initiate," he informed him cheerfully. "We'll have wards up on your say-so. Have a target in mind?"

_ Did they think I meant to just destroy the whole area? _ Harry wondered, but didn't ask. "One of these houses is supposed to have wards on it," he murmured to Gold, nodding in the direction of Number Four down the street. "I don't know if they're up all year, or if they're still there, but. That house."

"Second one on the left?" asked one of the others, their mask dark grey with a broad black stripe down the middle. They had a hand to their forehead as if shielding their eyes against bright light. "They're down; I can feel the bones of 'em even from here, but they're down."

"That strong?" mused the same person as had spoken earlier.

"Blood wards," said Stripe. "Looks like they've rotted away."

"How does that happen?" wondered Harry, peering around the hedge at Number Four.

He was talking to himself, but Stripe answered anyway. "Whatever was powering 'em ran out. Happens a lot, these kinds of places - the earth's so parched for magic that it pulls it down like water."

Harry remembered thinking, over the summer, that he'd never go back to the Dursleys again, that he'd never considered it a home like Dumbledore had asked him to. Those thoughts had probably sabotaged it, but then, he was here with a group of the very people the wards had been meant to protect; what a lucky coincidence.

He led the rest of the way in silence, eyeing the bars on his old room's window: they were visible even from the street. Harry had never understood how no one asked about that. A bit of snow had fallen, enough to dust the garden and the roof, but not the paved path to the front door - there were no footsteps left behind as he retrieved the spare key from under the doormat and let himself in, his six watchers close behind.

The group moved soundless, a unit, on guard, taking up positions around the first-floor landing with their wands drawn and ready; ironic given the Order's noisy arrival in the same space, less than two years prior. "Filthy Muggle place," muttered the same person again under her breath, barely enough to be heard, as Harry peered up the stairs, listening for late-night television. And with all that had befallen him under this roof? Harry couldn't bring himself to disagree.

"They're upstairs, then," he murmured. Petunia and Vernon were, at least; Dudley might be, if Smeltings let out for Christmas hols this early. Considering what Harry was here to do, he kind of hoped so.

Two Death Eaters exchanged looks and headed for the door to go outside. "Setting up a privacy ward," Gold explained in an undertone.

"Someone should go with them," Harry realized. "In case anyone shows up. There's usually guards, I didn't think to wonder why there weren't any-"

(What  _ if _ the Order showed up and found him here? Assuming he wasn't killed on sight, given he was currently wearing a white skull mask.) "Got it," the muttery witch nodded, exiting; now it was just Harry, Gold, Stripe, and a third watcher whose mask was black with white tracery around the eyes.

"Nice target, by the way," Stripe said brightly. "How'd you know about this place? Enemy's house?"

Technically, yes. "They held me prisoner here for a while," Harry confided quietly, glancing up the stairs again. Now he was listening for it, he could hear Vernon snoring all the way from here. He took a moment to kneel by the cupboard door and open it, squinting into the dark, dusty space inside. If he turned on the bare, dying bulb hanging there, he knew, he would see the tally marks he'd scratched into the wood to mark consecutive days in the cupboard, rows and rows scored down the wall. The record was twelve.

One of those who'd gone outside poked their head in the door, gesturing that the wards they'd set were up. Harry got back to his feet, rolled his shoulders, and made his way up the stairs, wand drawn. A quick Muffliato enveloped him, Gold, and Stripe in silence by the master bedroom door.

"Remember to leave one alive," Gold said.

Harry nodded, and went in.

The part of Harry that had been panicking earlier made a resurgence now, standing at the foot of his aunt and uncle's bed. What was he  _ doing? _ Was he seriously going to go along with this, to murder the Dursleys in cold blood? It wasn't like he couldn't  _ quit, _ right, just say he'd changed his mind and wasn't 'worthy' by whatever metric they used? Sure, he might get beat up, or maimed, or killed maybe, but at least he'd still be a good person-

Petunia snuffled, turning over in her sleep to face away from Vernon's snoring form. Harry's wand hand twitched, a stray spark falling onto the over-cleaned carpet. He realized, with mild surprise, that he'd bared his teeth in a snarl just looking at her. When had he forgotten how much he  _ loathed _ the Dursleys? Loathed frying pans and wooden spoons; loathed nights and days in the cupboard without food; loathed shrill orders, vicious slaps that stung and burned; loathed the worse burn of the sun on his back-

His wand was aimed at Petunia's sleeping form before Harry even noticed. Since when had he forgotten the anger in him, from the days before Hogwarts? Had he just chosen to ignore all of that when he left for the wizarding world? Since when had he stopped wanting revenge?

Since when had he  _ settled _ for Privet Drive?

_ Freak - Boy - Ungrateful - Useless-! _

The words left his lips with utter ease.

Green light. Silence.

Harry looked to Vernon, now. The great lump was still asleep, completely unaware that Petunia had gone stiller than usual beside him on the bed; in fact, Harry reflected, he never would know, with the fate in store for him.

"Silencio," he murmured. "Petrificus Totalus."

Harry felt light, unburdened, like he never had before; this was so, so easy. He smiled beneath the mask and went to check if Dudley was in the next room. To his mild disappointment, he wasn't. (But it would be funny later, wouldn't it? His whale of a cousin, discovering he was an orphan.) Under the pretence of checking the other rooms, Harry searched his old bedroom for anything he'd forgotten when packing his trunk in the summer. Nothing; he'd been thorough.

He went back to the master bedroom.

"Big 'un," someone muttered, almost impressed, as Harry floated a slowly-awakening Vernon Dursley out the front door and onto the lawn, like he'd caught a fish and not a human.

"Eats well," Harry deadpanned.

They laughed.

Whimsy had had Harry stealing Vernon's shiny pocketknife - often polished, never used - from his uncle's bedside table. He'd dump it if it became evidence, or something, Harry had never been allowed to watch crime shows on the telly. ( _ This is a crime, _ part of him was still saying, but it felt so much more distant than it had before.  _ Bit too late for that, _ he informed it, grinning, floaty.)

They formed up for group Apparition again as Vernon began to properly awaken. Then they were back in the cave, and Harry looked up at the sound of screaming to see one of the initiates who'd returned earlier than them was using the Cruciatus on their sacrifice. He winced, remembering how that felt, then glanced at Vernon, awake and struggling in vain against the magic that held him, and smiled.

His vision was a little blurry, like his glasses had been fogged up under the mask; the lights in the room seemed brighter, sounds more distant. The space before the throne where the sacrifices were being offered was darkened with bloodstains, the bonfire made taller with new bodies. Harry gazed into the flames as they burned the dead down to bones.

Gold laid a hand on Harry's shoulder, getting his attention. "You're up," he said. Harry blinked at him, before realizing what he meant - then he went down to the platform, floating the purpling figure down before him. He re-bound Vernon in conjured ropes instead of the Body-Bind, because it looked more interesting: then floated him upside-down as an idea came to him through his haze.

What was that spell again, in the Half-Blood Prince's book?  _ For enemies. _

He was guessing, based on the wand movement being so similar in the little diagram drawn next to the incantation, but. Harry aimed his wand at Vernon's neck. Took a breath.

"Sectumsempra."

And wow, he'd always thought his uncle would bleed like a stuck pig.

The Silencing Spell wore off at the same time as the curse was cast: Vernon's scream came out as a gurgle, drowned out in the spray of blood from the man's neck. It spread, black and shining, across the floor, lapping at his shoes, steaming in the cold of the cavern.

Harry was distantly aware of the audience applauding, louder than they had for the person before him; Gold directed his attention to the throne for evaluation-

And the drunken fog that had come over him fell away like a literal veil, the moment his eyes met red, with the sharp and sudden clarity of a slap in the face. He'd gotten so caught up in the murder that he'd forgotten it was for a  _ reason _ \- but now, with Voldemort descending the throne to loom over him, resting a broad palm, cold as clay, on Harry's shoulder, he remembered, oh, he remembered.

The hand slid down to his left arm, seizing the wrist, turning it over, a fingertip ever-so-gently pushing up his sleeve.  _ Oh, no. _

"Initiate," Voldemort whispered, praising, "your performance has been found worthy."

_ No, wait- _

Calm, red eyes met panicked green. Harry could not feel Legilimency, but he could not look away. "What is your name, Acolyte?"

(Acolyte? Not initiate-?)

His breath hitched.

He couldn't lie.

"..Harry," Harry whispered, goosebumps rising on his bared skin.

The fine scales at the corners of the Dark Lord's eyes crinkled, delighted. The hold on his arm tightened minutely.  _ Please don't do it, _ Harry begged in his mind, eyes pleading; the words clearly reached him, from the smirk that spread across Voldemort's face then, the way he thumbed over the pulse point in Harry's arm before he laid the point of his white wand onto it.

_ No, no, no- _

(I was a fool, let me go, I'd rather  _ die-) _

_ "Morsssmordre." _

Fire.

Harry crumpled to his knees, willing himself not to scream like the others had. He set his jaw, tears streaming down his cheeks under the mask, focus narrowing to that one point of contact-

-it burned it burned  _ worse than the Basilisk fang _ worse than the Cruciatus oh please make it  _ stop- _

And then it did stop, the sudden relief an ecstasy in comparison, so unexpected that he moaned, sagging in the Dark Lord's grip, and only just caught himself before he fell to the floor. Others had tried to get up here, and only made fools of themselves; and while Harry was a fool, oh, he'd made such errors, he was not the same kind of fool as them.

Besides. There was still one more thing he had to do.

The hold of that hand on his arm loosened, fingers brushing over the newly-branded skin as if the Dark Lord were reluctant to let go. Harry bent lower, now, prostrating himself, and felt the lower half of his skull mask disappear as he - ugh - pressed his lips to the bottom hem of the Dark Lord's white robes, where blood had stained them black in the blue light.

"My lord," he whispered, tasting salt and copper, as tears welled anew in the corners of his eyes.

When he was permitted to raise his head, Harry saw that his Lord was smiling.

Harry bolted upright in his four-poster bed in Gryffindor Tower in a cold sweat, drawing in harsh breaths. His throat was still raw from screaming; how the hell had he gotten here?

It couldn't have been a dream. He pulled aside the curtain, seeing his roommates asleep in their beds; only his had been drawn, as usual. No one else was awake yet - that was good. It meant he could sneak into the bathroom, shower off the sweat, and-

And look at his arm.

He hadn't looked at it before, too focused on not screaming, not giving in to the pain. Now, he wished he could keep from looking at it, as if imagining hard enough would erase it, erase last night, make it as if he'd never left Hogwarts in the first place. Couldn't he? Please?

He'd take a month of detention with Filch for being caught out after curfew, or even new Occlumency lessons with Snape, anything,  _ anything _ to make that all not have happened-

He stepped into the spray of the shower, deliberately scalding-hot to distract him from the phantom pain. Harry's throat felt tight as he breathed in, chest shaking against a sob, bracing himself. Only then did he dare to look down at his left arm.

He gasped.

Before his very eyes, the Dark Mark - horrible sight that it was, mutilation upon his skin - was disappearing, fading away into nothingness. Harry stared at where it had been, prodding at the once-again bare flesh there.

It wasn't hidden. It was gone.

He went to his knees, slumped against the wall, and cried his joy.

* * *

In this universe, he would be too relieved to wonder about the Mark failing to take, until the Battle of Hogwarts, when Harry would realize the Dark Mark simply doesn't work if one casts it upon themself.

But that's too easy, isn't it? A cop-out. An easy ending.

Tell me, dear viewer. Wouldn't you rather have the darkest timeline?


End file.
